


The nose knows

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Witcher, my only treasure [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Jaskier's a bit of an odd duck.If only Geralt knew the half of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher, my only treasure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650412
Comments: 5
Kudos: 269





	The nose knows

**Author's Note:**

> Spotted a post about Jaskier being a red dragon on tumblr.
> 
> Immediately thought of a Dragonheart AU idea, and then had _this_ bash me over the head shortly afterward, and had to write it.

Jaskier is something of an odd duck. The man doesn't stink as some humans do (overripe lemon and stagnant well water of fear and anxiety drowning his sinuses when they realise they're face to face with a _witcher_ _),_ and yet he insists on finding the nearest conveniently located pond or lake after just two days' travel. Potential for sprite, spirit, or sharp-toothed nasty lurking in wait for easy prey _be damned._

It's utterly baffling. He doesn't smell _bad_ , at least not as Geralt himself frequently does with monster guts in his hair and blood on his gloves, his arms, the crusted remains of saliva or mucus or poison smeared across his armour. He smells... if not good, then as close to it as any traveller can get, musk and salt and dirt, with hints of chamomile and sage and lavender from the various oils and soaps ever present in his pack. The obsession with cleanliness borders on vanity.

Who the fuck's he joking, of _course_ it's vanity. It's _Jaskier._

* * *

Then there's the bard's temper to account for, a sharp-tongued thing as sure to flay flesh from bone as any whip held in his hand. It's slow to build, creeping along behind them from town to town, simmering away in eyes like the sky until they're dark and stormy and promising imminent bloodshed. His fingers curl as claws 'round his lute, carefully setting aside such precious cargo as he hops down from his perch in whatever lodging they've managed to secure, unblinking stare fixed on another drunkard cursing the witcher in their midst. It soon becomes second nature for Geralt to fit his fingers around Jaskier's belt and yank him back to relative safety, it's soon normal to find the bard tucked in tight to his side, trapped until he's _calm_. That doesn't stop him from a _tirade_ of course, but the casual placement of hand on hilt is usually enough to warn the regulars against attempted violence.

Jaskier's scent shifts during such altercations, the fragility of his mortal coil giving way to something... _more_. Something _other_. Spice on the tongue and smoke in the blood, embers bright in his feral gae and it tugs at something in Geralt's instincts. A warning of sorts, something important he cannot recall. He puzzles over it even as he adopts the mantle of peacekeeper, even as he steels his arm around Jaskier's waist with the vague impression such contact is _allowed_ with how the bard shifts back in increments, slumps into him with a mighty, put-upon sigh. It can't be _that_ vital, else he'd remember it. Or so he tells himself. Which is round about when destiny gears up for another swing and shit, as they say, goes sideways.

* * *

When desperate times call for desperate measures, stones can make for effective weapons when launched at speed with the Sign of Aard. A different Sign entirely can also _shield_ from them, and it's this very one he employs at their next stop when the townsfolk make it _abundantly_ clear witchers aren't welcome.

For Geralt it's just another day, another minor inconvenience, another day's hunt to secure a dinner and night's careful placement of camp and fire. For _Jaskier_...

For him, it's the final straw. And it's only when Geralt's staring at the flared wings and sweeping tail of a blood-red, irate dragon on the _rampage_ that vague _thing_ from weeks prior clicks into place. The scent shift, and the elevated heartbeat to go with it, he's encountered it before, in those afflicted with lycanthropy. Not the _same_ smell, no, because Jaskier's... much... larger, more _ferocious_ form reminds him of a forest fire and werewolves mostly smell of wet dog and rotten meat. But the sign was there, _literally right under his nose_. And he missed it.

There's no time to dwell on his idiocy, however, when he has a bard-turned-dragon to wrangle, all while dodging claws the length of his forearm and bouts of fire hot enough to melt the armour to his skin. One thing he does note from the safe distance he promptly sprints across, however, is the scales. They _gleam_ in the sun.

Jaskier's insistence on scrubbing himself raw suddenly makes perfect sense.


End file.
